Born
by Detective Work
Summary: A fleeting childhood friendship turns into a mutual obsession. AU.
1. Beginning

**Author's Note:** decided to play around with the "childhood friends" trope. I'm primarily following John Carpenter's continuity, but there will be some Rob Zombie influences and will be divergent from canon at some point. I've decided to go through and edit this to make improvements grammatically and for the sake of plot, so if this looks familiar it definitely is. Another chapter is definitely in the works.

* * *

 **MAY 3, 1963:  
** **HADDONFIELD, ILLINOIS.**

The dirtied white tips of Katie Jones' pointed flats brush against the mulch of the playground as she swings back and forth on the swing absently, letting the wind take her. Over her thick head of wiry curls, she watches other children play hopscotch, jump rope. She itches to get up from her spot on the swing, ask if she can join but she knows the response to her attempts at friendship already-the older kids have spit on her, called her names, one time even locking her in a supply closet until a kindly janitor had come to her rescue when her mama came to pick her up. Kids her age are no better, and the teachers are no help, regardless of her mama's urging.

Katelyn Jones is only six-years-old, but she knows already that the kids hate her because she doesn't look like them. Not with her darker complexion or her big wiry head of hair that her mother painstakingly braids in the summer. It confuses her, because her mama always tells her she's beautiful because she's different, not despite it. But they still hate her, or they're afraid of her, or something else, and it makes no difference because she can't play hopscotch or jump rope or sing the same nursery rhymes they sing. It's nothing like Chicago.

She swings herself back and forth on the swing absently, still, eyes scanning the playground. Teachers congregating, kids running and playing, birds chirping. Upon a quick glance at her watch, she notices she only has ten minutes until the end of recess bell will ring, and she very decidedly plants her feet in the ground to stand. She wants to play, and she'll make them see how great she really is.

She's in the middle of approaching the biggest group of kids—Duke Elam, the oldest among them, and a few others—when her eye catches a sandy blonde head of hair sitting in the patch of grass a distance away from the other kids. Her gaze diverts quickly between the group of kids and the boy sitting alone, and it only takes her a moment to decide to head toward him instead.

Her flats crunch in the grass as she approaches, and she hesitates for only a moment as she stares at the expanse of grass beside the boy. Hears her mother's voice in her head, admonishing her for _getting yet another pretty dress filthy._ The boy seemingly doesn't acknowledge her presence even as she sits beside him, pretty dress be damned, his gaze downturn as lithe fingers pull at the grass from its roots.

She looks at him from the side for a long moment, waiting for him to acknowledge her at the very least. When he doesn't, she clears her throat like her daddy does when he demands attention.

"Hi," she says. Her heart beats fast. She hasn't made a single friend in all of her time in Haddonfield and she's nervous, suddenly. Undeterred, she goes on. "My name is Katelyn, but only my mamma calls me that. You can call me Katie."

The boy looks at her, at least, from under the shaggy fringe of blonde hair covering his features. She knows she's seen him around, before, in the few days she's been here. The thought to approach had She knows that some people are shy, so she settles down beside him, wiping the dirt on her palms off on the fabric of her dress. He looks down at her hands, as if the dirt offends him, then back at her.

"I really hate sitting by myself. Unless I'm drawing," Katie confides, quieter now as she looks into the same distance of white picket fences and homogenous houses lined up and down Haddonfield's streets beyond the confines of the park. She brings her knees to her chest, resting her cheek against her leg. "I saw you sitting by yourself. You shouldn't be alone."

The boy stays silent. She frowns, but refuses to be discouraged, considering silence isn't nearly the same as vehement dislike and even violence, sometimes, when the opportunity strikes.

"I can be your friend."

The bell rings. The teachers begin to yell for the kids to line up to go in for lunch. Katie sighs, trudging herself up by her hands to stand. More dirt wiped on the frilly pink dress as she moves to leave, gripping her metal lunchbox against her chest, but not before she hears an even smaller voice, raspy from disuse.

"Michael."

She looks at him. He looks down at his worn red high-top shoes, then back at her. She smiles at him even as he clearly hesitates to reveal more than the succinct statement.

"My name is Michael."

She reaches for his hand to lace their fingers. He tenses like a live wire, but she doesn't seem to notice as she pulls him along. He goes accordingly after relaxing for a moment, grip loosening in hers but not pulling away entirely.

"Come on, Michael," Katie says. "My mamma made me a peanut butter and jelly and packed an apple and a juice. If you don't have anything, we can share. School lunch looks pretty gross."

He's quiet again, then nods.

One of the teachers, Mr. Davis, notices their entwined fingers. Immediately, he steps over to them.

"Jones," he almost barks. She jumps, dropping her lunchbox. Michael stares at the lunchbox as it clings loudly on the concrete, then at Mr. Davis, his expression unreadable. Half of the lined students stare at them, along with the two other teachers on lunch duty.

"What did we tell you about touching the other students?"

Katie feels tears burning in her eyes already. Her lower lip trembles, and she looks at Michael, then at the fair-skinned boy and girl holding hands in the line beside theirs. She points to them.

"They're touching right now!" she argues. Her mother had already told her to watch her smart mouth earlier today, and here she is, unable to stop herself. "I'm not hurting Michael. I'm his friend."

Mr. Davis guffaws, then bends to meet her gaze, one hand gripping her wrist hard. She swallows, tries to pull her arm out of his grasp only for him to grip it harder.

"You're not," Mr. Davis says. "You're not. And if you talk back one more time, Jones, you'll be cleaning my chalkboard after school for a whole month, whether you and your mom like it or not. Do you want to test me?"

Katie feels the tears streaming down her face already, and she shakes her head. He releases his grip, and she rubs the red mark left behind, lip trembling and face burning in shame.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"That's more like it, Jones. Leave him alone and come with me, now."

When Mr. Davis tries to pull her away, she feels a hand reach out to take hers. Michael.

Katie blinks. Mr. Davis guffaws once more, even more incredulous.

"Mikey," Mr. Davis says. "You don't—"

Michael offers Katie her lunch box with his free hand, pulling her back to stand near him when the teacher releases her in his surprise at the movement. The boy makes no attempt to explain his actions and his nearly blank expression says even less, and Katie feels her heart racing wildly in her chest at it.

Mr. Davis huffs, standing at his full height and leaving the two of them. Katie pulls Michael along to catch up with the lines that have already filed, and the boy follows accordingly. He watches as she wipes the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand when they arrive at their table, a fair distance away from the others at the other end. He sits beside her instead of across from her, and she offers him one half of her sandwich with a tear-filled smile.

He hesitates before taking it, biting into it. He eats it like a wild animal, loud and lacking any sort of grace or etiquette.

"My mamma says you can choke if you eat too fast, Michael," she admonishes, quietly, biting into her half. He slows on the last few bites. "Are you hungry? You can have my carrot sticks. I don't like them anyway."

When she offers them, he takes them. Instead of his trademark sentence, he offers something.

"Thanks," he says so low, She smiles at him, brightly, the confrontation in the schoolyard from moments ago seemingly forgotten despite the tear tracks over her cheeks and the nose that still sniffles every inhale or so.

"I'm glad you're my friend, Michael," the girl confides through a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly.

He watches her for a long moment and nods, looking back to the remnants of the sandwich in his hands, where grape jelly smears over his fingers. She hands him a napkin from the dispenser on the table, which he stares at for a long moment before taking to wipe himself up. Her smile doesn't leave her features, though her cheeks head up when she notices him watching her again.

"You don't talk much, do you, Michael?"

He blinks.

"That's-that's okay. I talk a lot. Enough for two people, my mama says. So you won't feel lonely, if you need me."

The boy takes another bite of his sandwich, and Katie goes on, undeterred by the silence.

 **|O|**

When Patty Jones arrives at three on the dot to pick up Katie, she isn't greeted by the usual sullen sight of her daughter. Instead, Katie races out of the double doors of the kindergarten exit, barreling into her mother's arms. Patty laughs, picking up the girl with ease in an embrace and earning a giggle. When she sets her down, Katie offers a haphazard drawing of a beach that she'd just finished in art class.

"I made this for you," Katie says. Patty smiles, taking it and examining it as if it were a Da Vinci piece instead of a six-year-old's crude drawing.

"It's gorgeous," Patty says. "I love all your art. This will join the rest of your stuff in my office."

Katie laughs, hand lacing through her mother's as they begin their walk home.

"Is that all you did today, silly?" Patty asks, teasingly.

"I made a new friend today!" Katie exclaims. Patty almost stops the both of them in her surprise. In the five months since their family had moved from Chicago to Haddonfield, Katie had been more withdrawn than usual, coming home in tears more often than not because of her despair at her lack of friends like she had in Chicago. That and things Katie wouldn't tell her full stories of, of teachers seating her away from other kids and how they pull at her hair. She's been furious at her husband since first finding out one of the kids laid a hand on her little girl, furious at him for making them move to this hick town in the first place.

But it seems like Katie is adjusting, as Charles had told her would be the case. _She's going to take some time to adjust, Patty. We can't just pull her out of every school that has a problem with her-what will that teach her? More importantly, what will that teach them?_

"Oh yeah?" Patty asks, genuine intrigue showing in her innocent inquiry. "What's this friend's name?"

"His name is Michael," Katie says. "Just like the archangel. He's really nice. I um, I shared my lunch with him. I know you don't like it when I waste my food—"

Patty shakes her head, glancing down at Katie.

"No, no, that's okay. Michael would've been hungry if you didn't, right?"

Katie nods.

"Then that's okay. You did a good thing, sharing with your friend," she pulls the girl closer to her with an arm around the shoulders. Katie rests her head on her mother's side as they walk, pleased with the contact. "I taught you well, baby."

"Yeah! He's so nice. And he lives over on Lampkin Lane. Only a street over! It's so cool."

Patty smiles.

"I'm really glad to hear that, sweetie. I'm really glad you're making friends. I know it hasn't been easy."

After a moment, the girl gets a little more serious after being uncharacteristically quiet for a few long moments. "Do you think you can pack me two lunches tomorrow? I told Michael you make the best ham and cheese sandwiches, and I want him to give them a try."

"Yeah. Of course I can, sweetheart. I'll do that before we go to bed tonight."

Katie beams. "Thank you, mamma! You're the best."

Patty laughs.

"Thank you, baby. I just want you to be happy."

"I'm really happy."

"I know you are," Patty sounds a little sad. Katie doesn't seem to notice, trotting their way until they reach their house at the end of the block and running up the steps. Their Siamese cat, Princess, sits in the window on top of the back of the couch, meowing loudly through the screen at the sight of Katie approaching. She touches the cat's whiskers through the screen until her mother comes up the steps and unlocks the door, letting the two of them inside.

Charles Jones, fresh from a job and still clad in blue jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt, smiles wide at the sight of the two of them. Katie rushes toward him so his big arms encircle her in a hug, head burying in his shoulder for only a moment before withdrawing. Her face wrinkles in displeasure.

"You still smell like paint, daddy," Katie says, wiping herself of imagined residual paint stains on her coat.

"That's what happens when I get a job, sweetheart. Don't be so dramatic; you're fine. No paint anywhere."

"Mhm. Good."

She heads toward the coat rack to hang up her jacket, while Patty takes her backpack and lunchbox. The lunchbox is set in the kitchen to be cleaned out and prepared later, while she sits with her backpack to look through at the dining room table. With a groan, Charles stands and stretches, joints crackling and popping with the movement, and heads toward the dining room to join his family. Katie runs by to hug her mother before sitting beside her.

"I got a 90 on my spelling test," Katie says when Patty takes the slim sheet of lined paper with the spelling on it. "It just wasn't a 100 'cause I had no idea how to spell 'squeeze.' But Michael spelled it for me."

"Michael?" Charles intercedes, sitting down with two bottles of Coca-Cola and a butter knife. Eager, Katie sits beside him, eager as her daddy pops open the bottles and hands one to her. Patty gives him an admonishing look, to which he responds with a simple shrug and a grin, hand running over Katie's wild head of hair.

"Michael," Katie confirms upon finishing her first sip of the sugary drink. "My new friend. Michael Myers."

"Myers," Charles says thoughtfully. "I think I know of his mother very, _very_ well-"

"Katie," Patty interrupts, sparing her husband another seething glance, before returning her attention back to Katie, setting her homework folder down on the table. "Before you start your homework, why don't you tell daddy what you did today at school?"

Katie looks confused for a moment, before realizing exactly what her mother means and, in her eagerness, nearly spills the bottle over before Charles stops her. She stammers a few times getting the words out.

"I-Today, I shared my lunch with Michael, 'cause I thought he was hungry. He really liked it. I did a good thing for my friend."

"Oh, sweetie, that's good. You always need to be nice to people. I knew we taught you well. What else did you do today?"

"Well, Michael and I decided to sit together in our class, 'cause we both sat in the back anyway. He helped me with spelling and I helped him with the science homework from last night."

"Oh yeah?"

Katie nods.

"Uh-huh. His mama came to pick him up before mama came to get me. She was really nice, too." Katie pauses to sip at her Coke, frowning at the homework sheet her mother lays out before her mid-sentence.

"Come on, sweetheart," Patty says. "Quicker you get it done, quicker we can play hopscotch and make the cookies."

Katie's expression lightens immediately, grabbing the sharpened pencil her mother lays out beside the paper.

"Okay. As long as you help me."

Patty kisses Katie on the temple.

"Of course, baby. I'll be right here, and so will daddy."

It takes Katie a little under an hour to finish her homework-and it only takes so long because the usually quick girl resorts to rambling about Michael Myers, much to the endearment of her parents, who are more than relieved at the fact that their daughter has finally planted roots in their new home despite their initial fears over her first few days, especially so far into the school year.

Haddonfield seems like a very fine place to make home after all.

* * *

 **OCTOBER 31, 1978:  
** **HADDONFIELD, ILLINOIS.  
** _ **HALLOWEEN.**_

"Do you want to come to the Tower Farm party later on? I'm sure there's still booze and music going on. Something, I don't know," Budd Scarlotti asks as Katie slides her coat over her scrubs. She knows she's smelled better and looked better, at the very least, and the jacket isn't nearly enough to cover it. She lets out a laugh, gentle and soft, and shakes her head. She knows, too, that Budd, one of the EMT's that always circulates through the hospital's wards, has been eyeing her for weeks. _He's got the hots for nurse tail,_ Karen had told her, another nurse in the natal unit who Katie _also_ knew ended up sleeping with him. Something must be working for him.

Unfortunately, Katie Jones is not nearly as adventurous as Karen, and especially not after a twelve hour shift with only a ten minute break for a piss and a cigarette.

"Sorry, Budd. I've got to go feed my cat and I'll be honestly, my records and my bed are just calling my name right now." She buttons up the wool coat, and offers, "maybe another time? You've got a long shift too, so you're crazy."

Budd laughs.

"Sure. Another time. You know I'm a party animal."

Katie rolls her eyes, shoving at his shoulder playfully and without meaning. "Yeah, alright. We'll see how you feel after tonight. Mrs. Alves has got a stick up her ass on another level tonight."

Budd's face gets a little more somber as he groans, heading to the door to open it wide for her. Katie steps through, slinging her purse over her shoulder and nodding in thanks.

"Are you serious? What's her problem now?"

"A lot of people have called out. A few no-shows," Katie gets a littler quieter as they head toward the exit, realizing belatedly that Mrs. Alves could be lurking around any corner. Thankfully, she doesn't materialize out of nowhere to scold her for her slander, "but I don't know, she's been in a heinous mood all day."

"Shit," Budd says, shaking his head. "I don't blame her, though. You've heard the news today, right? That mental hospital in Warren County sanitarium, you know the one? A bunch of patients escaped. Crazy shit."

Katie nods. Budd holds the exit open for her.

"Yeah, crazy shit alright," she digs for her box of cigarettes, turning to face him. "Take it easy, alright? Especially on Karen."

That earns a chuckle. Katie grins.

"Yeah, we'll see. Hey, you be safe tonight, alright? Always some crazies roaming through the streets on Halloween."

"Thank you! I'll see you tomorrow, I bet."

Budd grumbles as she weaves through the parking lot, laughing to approaches her Mustang, lighting up the cigarette between her lips only when she's sitting inside with the doors locked and radio on. Her favorite blues station can always be trusted for good content, even at this time of night. Tipping ash from her cigarette, she rolls her window down only a crack, finding herself staring at a shape that lurks in the red hue of the hospital's lights. Her heart skips a beat and she blinks-the silhouette gone.

With a shake of her head, Katie starts up the car and heads to the diner just down the street for a cup of coffee, a breakfast spread, and her dog-eared copy of her newest find from James Baldwin at the bookstore downtown. She sits tucked into her favored corner booth, book open over the table as her waitress brings her her favorite eggs and bacon and pot of freshly brewed black coffee, which she fills up on. She gets to the halfway mark of her book before she pays for her bill, waving at the manager before heading out, throwing her coat over her shoulders. The drive home takes around thirty minutes, avoiding the heavy traffic and police cars, when it normally only takes ten from the diner.

By the time she unlocks the front door, Katie thinks she could fall asleep right on her sofa in her scrubs. She would, if she couldn't smell her own perspiration from a day of running around, short-staffed and with little to no break. Caffeine pumping through her veins, she decides to head to the cabinet under her sink to retrieve her half-finished bottle of whiskey. It'd been a birthday present from her father, though the two of them found themselves drinking it more together than not. _He'll be fine if I have some without him._

Today's been a stressful day. Understaffed at the hospitalas always, with the few staff they did have constantly slacking off. The screams and cries of newborns in the maternity ward, the demands of new mothers, the general flippant attitude from doctors—it's enough to drive her up a wall, and this is only her third month as an officially licensed nurse. _God help me in ten years then, right? At least I won't have Dr. Motherfucking Mixter to answer then, that creep._ Luckily, he hadn't been on shift today, though he would officially be on-call for the graveyard shift tonight. She'd been lucky enough to not have to work that one, not after the double she worked today.

Katie huffs, sliding off her coat and heading to her vinyl player with the bottle of rum in hand. She doesn't take long to finger through her pile of records beside it, choosing the Earth, Wind, and Fire disc at the top. The tune of "Shining Star" plays through the house as she hums along, sipping from the bottle of rum in her hand.

She's in the middle of undressing for a shower, unlacing her clunky work shoes to put her feet up with her toes spread, when her cat heads down the stairs to chirp loudly at her.

"What is it, baby?" she asks, over the music. Princess comes up under her hand when she overs it, rubbing her cheek against her fingers as she pets her. "I fed you wet food already today. You don't need anything else, big girl."

When she glances up, she screams. A tall silhouette in the light of her hallway, blocking the front door. She barely makes out the blank white mask and the shine of a knife in his hand before the man is collapsing to the floor of her kitchen, so heavy that the entire room shakes. Princess bounds away, quickly, and Katie grips at her chest, breathing heavily as her heart races. The hand loosens on the handle of the knife before she kicks it away.

She thinks to grab her daddy's gun in the living room before she notices the blood pooling on the freshly waxed floor of the kitchen. She bends down, tentative, looking for some sort of entry wound on the dark fabric of the mechanic uniform. She finds a few holes—exit wounds, thankfully, so no bullets to dig out there—and counts to five before she reaches the neck of the mask, heart thumping loud and hard in her ears. She notices the burns over dirtied hands and the charred collar of the coveralls and wonders, wonders if he was caught in a fire in the same incident that landed the nasty holes in the coveralls.

When her hand touches along the mask's hem, intending to pull it off, a vice grip of a bloodied hand on her wrist stops her.


	2. Tulips

**Author's Notes:** Much of the dialogue is inspired by my own experience working as a daycare/summer camp counselor to (predominantly) 6-7-year-olds. I'll say this: the kids I worked with were absolutely obsessed with either me drawing for them or drawing for me when they could, so I wanted to translate that here in the (seldom) lighter bits before the darkness. Apologies for the long wait between the previous update. I had huge writer's block when it came to this story, but I think I know the direction I'm heading with it now. As with my other fic, _Skin Game_ , I will be trying to update at least once a month, from now on.

Onto the story!

* * *

"One way, or another, I'm gonna find you, I'm gonna get you."  
\- Blondie, _One Way or Another_

* * *

To sixteen-year-old Barbara Dickinson, sitting around for a few hours after cheering practice and watching the kids from Haddonfield Elementary for their after-school program is worth it for the extra pocket change. So far, it's supported her bi-weekly manicures, her haircuts, and now the rest of the money is going into saving for a pair of blue jeans. It's easy work, too, unlike the grueling work at the diner down the street. She spends most of her time reading magazines, occasionally watching over and engaging with the small group of kids whose parents are too busy working or who wait for the school bus to arrive to leave in a timely manner. The fact that it's Friday-the Friday before the last day of school on Wednesday as well-only serves to make her and the other kids more antsy to leave to enjoy their sunny weekend at the beach or the playground and not cooped up in the school anymore.

She makes her rounds, checking on the kids' drawings, which keeps most of them occupied for the most part. She pokes her head in to see if the kids are having issues, whether with each other or personally.

"That's really pretty, Katie," Barbara comments, looking over the five-year-old's drawing. She's still new to the town, relatively new, and sweet but still nervous about getting to know everyone. She'd been gently encouraged by her supervisors to warm the girl up so she tries her best. The response she garners is a wide grin.

"Thanks, Miss Barbara," she says. "I've been spending a long time on it."

"Well, keep it up, sweetheart. It looks great."

Katie nods as Barbara walks away, checking on the other kids, and continues on drawing, biting gently into the flesh of her lower lip in thought.

The flower on Katie's paper is unlike any flower she's actually seen in her life. Only six, and having only been around the state of Illinois and to her aunt's farm in South Carolina on a trip she barely remembers, she figures a flower covered with blues and purples and pinks with huge petals may just exist somewhere on the other side of the world. If not, somewhere on the moon, maybe.

She grabs the green marker in the middle of the big table, working on the roots.

"When I finish this," Katie says offhandedly, "you can have it, if you want."

Michael doesn't look up at her from his own drawing, only pausing in his movement. She watches him, unfazed by the boy's lack of reaction, and unfazed by the loud chatter of the kids around them. Something in her understands that Michael's different, but different is more than okay, and she won't ever be mean to him about it.

The boy nods, after a moment, that distant gaze catching hers and making her smile a little more.

"It's a flower," she continues when he doesn't reply, scooting closer to him to show him her work-in-progress. That dark gaze flicks from his drawing to hers. "I don't know what kind. I wanted to draw a tulip, my favorite, 'cause mamma has tulips in our garden. But I know this isn't even _close_ to a tulip."

He reaches for the drawing. She takes it away, quickly.

"Michael, I need to finish, first. Then I'll give it to you," Katie points at his drawing, crude and full of violent scribbles, black and white and a little orange, mixed in, "what's that?"

He blinks at the inquiry, shrugging after a moment, the gesture so minute that she barely notices it.

She bites her lip, looking it over, then asks, "can I keep it, when you're done?"

Michael nods once, as minute as his shrug. She grins, wrapping her arms around Michael in an embrace, her slight form even slighter than Michael's, and buries her face in his shoulder. One of the butterfly clips in her hair digs into his nose, but he doesn't respond with anything besides a belated hand on her back.

She withdraws after a moment, returning busily to her own picture. Michael's dark gaze stays on her for a long moment before a bigger, bony hand reaches for her crayon box. Duke Elam smiles with his same wolfish grin, auburn hair cropped and curled at his ears. He looks like the rest of the Elam boys, who live a block or two down from Katie. She frowns, reaching automatically for her crayon box out of the boy's hand.

"Hey, give that back!" Katie exclaims, "please, Duke, my mommy just bought that for me!"

The eight-year-old boy laughs, dropping the crayon box and stepping on it with a heavy boot-clad foot, breaking the plastic into pieces. Katie's mouth opens wide in shock, then tears start burning at her eyes as she begins to cry, body shaking with it. Duke laughs, pointing at her, as Michael stares between them both.

"What's going on here?"

Katie gasps for air, hiccuping over her cries. "Duke broke my crayon box! And it was on purpose!"

"Duke!" Barbara admonishes, grabbing the boy by the lapel of his polo shirt. "Why did you do that? You apologize right now! I'll be telling your father about this once he comes to pick you up."

Duke exhales, shaking his head and, mumbling and insincere, mutters, "I'm sorry, Katie."

"Good. Now go to the corner for the rest of the afternoon, until your dad shows up. We'll have a nice chat. No crayons, or toys. Go now."

Petulantly, Duke huffs and stalks to the corner, only Michael's unreadable gaze following him while Katie's cries subside, Barbara rubbing over her shoulder comfortingly. Katie immediately hugs onto the older girl, who runs her fingers over her hair and rocks her back and forth. A few of the other kids have formed around them, asking if she's okay.

"We'll talk to your mom about this and make it clear it's not your fault, okay?" Barbara begins picking up Katie's crayons and markers off the floor. "Come on, let me get these picked up for you and we'll draw together. Does that sound good?"

Katie wipes at her eyes and nods after a moment, offering a snot-filled smile. Barbara laughs, shaking her head as she grabs a few tissues to wipe at the girl's face until the only evidence of her cries remain in her pink eyes and sniffling nose. After picking up her crayons and markers, she sets them in a ziplock bag and pulls up a chair, sitting beside Katie to color on a blank sheet of paper, encouraging Katie to work on her own nearly finished drawing. Katie does so dutifully, even more determined at seeing Barbara work.

"Miss Barbara?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I keep that? When you're done?"

Barbara laughs. "Of course, sweetheart. Can I keep yours?"

"Actually," Katie says, matter-of-factly, "I'm giving mine to Michael when I'm done, 'cause I already promised him."

Barbara looks to ask Michael about it, but finds Michael is no longer there beside them but sitting at the rug a few feet away from Duke's chair facing the wall, flipping through one of the books at the shelf. Barbara shakes her head, attention returning back to Katie and the other kids who've returned to sit beside them and color in their group.

"Alright, fine," Barbara says, mock-disappointed. "I'll just have you draw one of your beautiful pieces for me on Monday, how about that?"

Katie grins.

"Of course, Miss Barbara. I'll bring you something on Monday, 'cause my mom lets me color on the way home from the beach. I'll have plenty of time."

Barbara murmurs in agreement, and with the fifteen minutes or so left until the bus arrives and the rest of their parents follow suit, they color dutifully. By that time, Katie's finished her "tulips" and Barbara finishes the drawing of the sun and moon that she gives to Katie to put in her bag before she begins to instruct all of them to clean up.

While the rest of the kids are throwing out pencil and crayon shavings, a shriek pierces the ebb and flow of the small class and Barbara's head turns quickly in the direction of the noise. Duke Elam lies on the floor face first, holding a pair of scissors by the handle with the blade in his eye, blood caking over his fingers as he screams and cries. Barbara quickly rushes over to him, moving him to stand as his cries unsettle the other students.

"Don't come over here!" Barbara exclaims. "Just keep on cleaning up until the principal gets in. Behave for a few minutes while I'm gone."

Her arm wraps around Duke as the boy cries, cupping his eye now that he's taken the scissors out of them, hiccuping from his cries. "I've got you, Duke. It's okay. We're going to the nurse's office who'll get a good look at that for you. Just relax, sweetheart."

The cries subside as the two enter the hallway. Katie stares at them, not noticing Michael walking up behind her, reaching for her hand. She gasps in surprise, noticing the boy and smiling gently at him, holding his hand in return and squeezing as their fingers interlace together. Michael takes the initiative as they walk together into the line, handing her his drawing. She grins, tucking it into her folder, and hands him her own-the colorful tulips with their otherworldly petals. He looks over the art for a moment before tucking it away in his own bag.

The two of them enter the courtyard together, hand-in-hand, and wait with the principal until Deborah Myers pulls up in her bright yellow car, dressed in a loose sweater and long skirt, platinum hair pulled up into a tidy bun.

"Hey, sweetheart," she says as she hugs Michael, then smiling at Katie, cupping her face with a manicured hand. The girl responds by hugging the older woman around the waist, barely at level with her midriff. Deborah laughs in delight.

"Your mom asked me to watch the two of you, and Cynthia's with her daddy today, so it'll be fun," Deborah says cheerfully, taking their hands in either of hers as they walk in the direction of her car. "I was thinking we can get some ice cream and sit in the park. How's that sound for you?"

Michael's only response is his trademark silence, though Katie's is much more cheerful, swinging Deborah's hand back and forth as she skips.

"That sounds great, Ms. Myers! Can I get strawberry? 'Cause that's my favorite."

"That's Michael's favorite too," her attention returns to her sandy-haired boy, painted lips grinning widely. "Isn't that right, baby?"

After a moment, Michael nods belatedly. Deborah leans down to kiss him on his cropped head before taking their bags to put in her trunk, letting them settle into the backseat of her buggie while she slides into the front to light up a cigarette.

"So," Deborah says as she heads down the street, "did anything happen today?"

Katie chimes in quickly, stammering over her words as she talks, "Michael and I drew for each other and-then, Duke Elam broke my crayon box. I was really mad, but then he got hurt really, really badly. I felt bad for him, and for being mad."

Neither Katie nor Deborah notice Michael's very faint smile at those words. Deborah shakes her head.

"That whole family, they're nothing but trouble," Deborah claims, "but that's really bad, that he was hurt. Is he okay?"

"I think he is. Miss Barbara took him to the nurses right away, and I think he'll be okay. I think he was just running with scissors, which my mommy says you're definitely not supposed to do."

"That's right. It's good your parents teach you to be careful, just like I teach Michael."

"Mhm. It's very important," Katie says, looking out the window. Michael watches her for a moment. "Thank you, Miss Myers, for the ice cream."

The car parks as Deborah looks at the two kids, smiling.

"You're welcome, sweetheart. So polite. Come on, let's go get in that line, huh?"

Katie eagerly leaves the car, Michael following behind them. The three of them join hands as they wait to order their ice cream and sit at the picnic tables with the cones in hand. Deborah makes small talk with Katie, who makes a valiant effort to make Michael to speak. The boy doesn't, simply eating his ice cream and watching his mother and friend talk with each other. Within the next half-hour, while Katie swings on the monkey bars and Michael builds castle in the sand, Patty Jones shows up, thoroughly winded and jostled. Deborah grins, embracing her upon seeing the slighter woman and offering to buy her ice cream.

"No, no," Patty insists as Katie runs up to her, wrapping her arms around her immediately, winding tight. Patty barely manages to sit with the girl's arms around her, huffing a laugh as she rubs over her back. "I'm okay, really. I really do appreciate this, Deborah. My boss always asks me to work too late."

Deborah shakes her head. "No, don't you worry about that. Katie's great to have around and she's an even better influence on Michael. Besides, I work nights, and I'm up by this time so-if you ever need me to watch her again, just let me know and I can take her right off your hands. We working moms have to stick together, don't we?"

"Hell yeah, we do," Patty says, looking down at the girl whose arms wind tight around her. "Why don't you go play with Michael, baby? 'Cause we're leaving to go with your father in fifteen minutes and you won't see Michael 'til Monday."

Katie immediately bounds off to go play with Michael in the sand, looking over his sand castle and taking the bucket to add more on top of it. Patty shakes her head, attention returning to chat with Deborah until they all pack up to leave. Katie wraps her arms around Michael, giving the boy a peck on the cheek. Patty sighs, grabbing Katie by the arm gently to pull her away.

"Sorry," Patty says quickly. "Katie, what have we said about personal space?"

Katie flushes. "Michael's my friend and I love him, like I love you and daddy."

Deborah laughs as Michael blinks, brow furrowing in what seems like confusion.

"It's okay," Deborah says, wrapping an arm around Michael's shoulders. "She's just affectionate. Michael's used to that from me, isn't he?"

Michael giggles when Deborah tickles at his ribcage, shrugging her off. Patty smiles.

"Alright, alright," Patty says, "well, we're going to say goodbye, now, but we'll see you bright and early Monday morning."

"Okay," Deborah says, "we'll see you then!"

Patty and Katie walk the few blocks home away from Michael and Deborah, where Charles is pulling lawn chairs and their cooler into their truck. Katie goes to embrace her father and runs inside the house, hanging Michael's drawing on the fridge immediately.

Simultaneously, Michael pulls out her drawing from his own bag, sat on his bedroom floor away from his sister and mother's latest yelling match, and touches over the crude crayon marks on the flower petals and then, over her name, scribbled in the top corner of the page.

When school returns to session on Monday, Katie feels thoroughly ready for Wednesday to arrive after getting a taste of summer at the beach house that past weekend. Luckily, their class doesn't do too much actual work, busy celebrating the summer's arrival. However, Michael doesn't show up in line in the morning, or at breakfast, or in homeroom. She hears some of the teachers whispering about how Duke Elam and Michael had some kind of problem with each other, but it doesn't make any sense.

Michael shows up at lunch, though, sitting dutifully beside her with his tray of school lunch. Katie offers her bag of carrot sticks to him like she always does, leaning to him to whisper, "are you okay?"

"I'm okay," Michael whispers, voice hoarse as if from disuse. "Just-had to sit with the principal and my mom."

Katie nods, not asking anything further because she's more relieved than anything to have what feels like her only real friend back at her side. The day goes on seamlessly after that, the two of them parting ways when Patty comes to pick Katie up on time.

That summer is non-eventful, too. Katie spends most of it at her aunt's apartment in Chicago while her parents travel back down south periodically, going to family events or out with her aunt, who likes to frequent the beaches and movie theaters most of all. Katie definitely doesn't mind, pleased to be away from the small-town lull of Haddonfield that she still hasn't quite adjusted to, and even happier to be with her extended family. Periodically, the girl talks about Michael, one of the only people she seems attached to from their new home.

Once a month, it seems, they return to their house, where Katie hounds her mother to call Miss Myers to arrange for a playdate. Usually, it happens at Katie's house, where Michael seems quieter than usual in the living room where they sit under fans eating homemade pizza and drinking out of juice boxes. Katie doesn't mind it, because she really does talk enough for the both of them.

When the school year rolls around in September, Michael and Katie find themselves sorted into different homerooms, which leaves them to only share lunch and art classes together. Katie spends as much time as she can with the boy, though her mother enrolls her in piano classes and makes it that much harder to see him when their time together is so limited in the first place. Sometimes, on weekends, they see each other, but it's not much at all.

After Halloween, Katie remembers her mother and father saying Michael's very sick and _he'll be gone for awhile, sweetheart, in the hospital getting help_ when she asks too many questions about him. The questions die down after some time, though she mentions him time and time again and even writes letters that her mother sends. There's no response, even when Deborah smiles and says that they're coming soon.

She's around eight-years-old when Deborah stops coming around, too. It makes her a little sad, and her parents simply tell her that she's moved away to be closer to Michael. She doesn't find out what really happens until she's twelve and morbidly curious, and finally asks one of her classmates. By that time, the memories from seven years ago feel spotty, with flashes sporadically coming to her here and there.

When she's seventeen, she graduates high school early from taking classes at home and at school, and receives a full-ride to the University of Chicago's nursing school for her anatomical sketches and on a music scholarship. She spends the four years there and moves back home to Haddonfield, this time in her own tiny apartment though she spends much of her time at her father's house-her mother having passed in her junior year of college-when she moves back, sorely missing his presence. Sometimes, on her morning walks she makes to keep her father feeling spry and young, they pass by the Myers house-the spook house, as some of the neighbors call it. Neither of them talk about it, or him, letting that subject sit for another time and another place.

It's only a matter of time before she gets an offer at the severely understaffed Haddonfield Memorial Hospital after sending out many applications, working in the maternity ward where she's always wanted to be. It means she spends most of her nights stuck on the graveyard shift, leaving her to her lonesome, and despite the girl's bubbly persona it's still fulfilling enough work to be worth it.

* * *

The Shape's hand tightens around her wrist as she tenses in fear, though the vice grip loosens as those dark eyes stare at her-one of them seemingly gouged out. It makes Katie shudder as she backs away from him, still on her knees and still in shock about the situation. Despite all of her training, nothing could truly prepare her for finding a six-foot-something masked man bleeding on her kitchen floor. Her hands even shake in fear at that intense gaze.

"I don't know who you are," she says finally, standing up to head toward the phone, keeping him in her line of vision as she reaches for the landline on the counter. "I don't know what you want, but I think you're hurt and-I think I should call an ambulance, for you. If you come any closer, I'll get my daddy's gun and I think we'll both regret that, won't we?"

The Shape stands, and, much to her horror, starts heading toward her as soon as she dials the numbers. She holds up the phone as it dials as if it's a weapon, heavy as it is, and throws it quickly toward him, disconnecting it from the landline. It hits him in the shoulder with a grunt, giving her barely enough time to map her way out-the front door blocked by his mammoth form, leaving only the stairs to run up behind her. Quickly, she runs toward the steps, running up them only to feel that vice grip snake around her waist, yanking her quickly back down the steps toward him. She screams, clawing at the railing and kicking at the man wildly, both begging him to stop and for help.

"Leave me alone!" she kicks at him, pulling herself up the steps as she looks at him in his masked features, having trouble catching her breath after falling on her chest on the steps. His head cocks, like a curious German Shepherd's, and suddenly, the motions stop. He reaches to pull out something from his pocket, making her scramble up a few of the steps in fear to put some distance between them as she watches on. Instead of a knife, or any other blunt weapon, he pulls out a piece of paper, worn and yellowed and aged, and unfolds it.

Her own colored tulips stare back at her from the page. Katie's brow furrows as she stares at the photo, then looks back at Michael, swallowing heavily.

"M-Michael?" she says, confused and shocked, if anything, standing at her full height against her own instinct. Michael's gaze bores into hers, though she can barely see his eyes because of the shadows the mask causes. "Is-Michael? How-how did you-?"

Michael exhales loudly, reaching for her wrist with a bloodied hand. She tugs at her wrist in instinct to protest, still shaking from terror, but it does little to deter him once more. He says nothing, simply staring down at her as he hands her the drawing.

"Have you kept this with you?"

His head cocks. She sighs shakily, now at eye-level with the blood smeared on his chest and the bullet holes. Tears sting at her eyes against her will as her hands find their way into the various holes and wounds on his chest, and she has no idea why she feels like she wants to cry. She remembers him, her first friend in her new town-but other than that, there's no real attachment or loyalty to him from there because in the time since he was sent away, she made friends in school and beyond and had, by all means, moved on from when she was a new girl in first grade. She doesn't know how she feels, besides overwhelmed, and doesn't try to, adrenaline making her feel even more exhausted.

"I should get a look at these for you, Michael. You're hurt, badly, and we should call an ambulance-"

Michael's head shakes minutely-only once, as he withdraws from her after touching her wrist once, turning away to amble somehow gracefully down the hall in the direction of the back door. She follows at his heels after a moment's hesitation.

"Michael!"

He doesn't stop.

"Michael! Where are you going! Wait!"

He slows, only to step out the back door and into her backyard, where she catches up to look after him to find he's no longer there. She blinks, staring after the direction he went in, and hears the distant wail of sirens as she steps inside of her kitchen once more. The only evidence he was there is the small pool of his blood on the kitchen floor and the broken telephone.

Katie feels the tears stream down her cheeks as she stares down at the drawing in her hand, watching as her own tears mix with the blood stains on the tulip petals she drew fifteen years ago.


	3. Volkswagen

Katie sits on her porch shivering as sirens wail in the distance around her. Officer Frank Hawkins walks up the steps to wrap a police-issued fleece blanket around her shoulders, offering a hand to escort her to his cruiser.

"We called your dad," Frank murmurs to her as they walk together. He's only a few years older than Katie, but his father and her own go way back. "He's on his way back, said he should be here within the next few hours, depending on traffic. Are you okay?"

She nods.

"I'm okay, Frank," she says, shaking her head when she sits inside. "I-I just wasn't expecting this. I got out of the hospital and now I'm hearing about all of that shit that happened. Do you know anything more than what the news has been reporting?"

"He killed a few people at the hospital, Katie," Frank's lips purse together in a thin line. "To try to get to Laurie Strode. I guess you left just in time."

Katie blinks, feeling tears burn her eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time tonight. It strikes her then how quickly everything's changed-just two hours ago, she was worn to the bone from working a double at Haddonfield Memorial and now she has no idea if any of her coworkers have even survived the night. She sighs, leaning against the backseat of the cruiser, and tries to make sure the tears don't spill down her cheeks. Overtired, overworked, and now she can't stop thinking of the shaggy haired blond who'd become a specter of her memory in the fifteen years since she last laid eyes on him. She'd spent a long time clutching at that drawing of the tulips before an officer took it from her as evidence, but it's already ingrained in her memory.

"I know this must be hard for you, Katie," Frank says softly, "I think I should take you to the station now. We've got a few guys stationed at your place and we're looking all over for him. It's still safer for you at the station."

"Okay. You'll be there, right?"

"Yeah, I will be. Come on, let's get you out of the cold."

The drive downtown should take a few minutes, but it takes a half an hour, with the amount of police cruisers, ambulance, and press in the streets. She sighs, knowing that she's trembling all over, and sinks back into the seat, thinking of sinking into it like quick sand and never coming back. Dread makes her stomach heavy like lead and exhaustion from her shift along with tonight's events make her eyelids heavy, adrenaline dissipating fast. She registers the flash of cameras when she's escorted out of the cruiser with Frank's hand at her elbow, some of the officers blocking the view so her face won't be splayed all over tomorrow's Haddonfield Explorer.

Frank offers her a sweater and sweatpants, police-issued and navy blue, when they get to the station which she gladly takes instead of her soiled scrubs. Her hair, pulled back with the help of gel and hairspray and the will of god, looks frizzy from the brief struggle at her staircase and knows she'll have to go back and spend the time to wash it again once she's let out of here.

When she sits in an interrogation room, Frank joins her with some coffee, which she gladly thanks him for as she takes a sip. More caffeine to make her jumpy and wired doesn't sound like the best idea, but it's warm and she thinks she could keel over without it at this point.

"You okay?" Frank asks.

She nods.

"I'm fine, Frank, really." Katie swallows dryly, leaning in to speak softer to him. "Do you have names of anyone who was killed?"

"I know the sheriff's daughter was one of them, and a few of her friends. Mason Strode's daughter seems to be who he was after," a beat. "Besides you."

She shakes her head, setting the mug of coffee on the metal table.

"No, I don't think Michael was after me, Frank," she notices Frank's wince when she says his name, but continues, "I think I just happened to be there. He noticed me, somehow."

Before Frank can ask her anymore questions, the door opens, and an older man in a trench coat enters in the company of a few officers. Bandages cover a good majority of his features, and Katie can tell already that his intensity demands attention. She exhales, leaning back in her chair. Deputy Hunt clears his throat, features etched with exhaustion, and gestures to the man.

"Katelyn, this is Dr. Sam Loomis. He'd like to talk to you, about Michael."

Katie nods wordlessly, and the officers follow suit out of the room, leaving the two of them together. She knows they're being watched on the two-way mirrors, and it makes her feel nervous.

"Hello, Ms. Jones," Dr. Loomis says, taking a seat adjacent with a worn leather suitcase. "I have a few questions I'd like to ask of you."

"Sure."

Dr. Loomis withdraws the drawing of the tulips, still within a plastic evidence bag. She swallows thickly, glancing up at him.

"Michael gave this to you?"

She knows he already knows his answer. Her name, written crudely in crayon, with his beneath sits on the corner of the worn page. Still, Katie has no desire to cause anymore trouble tonight, and nods when she looks up at him.

"Michael and I went to Haddonfield Elementary together," she says. "I drew that for him, like kindergarteners usually do for each other. I guess he kept it, and that's how he remembered me."

Dr. Loomis' brow furrows. She crosses her arms.

"No one had ever mentioned anything about you, Katelyn-if I may-not in his files, not at his trial."

"We were only friends for a few months, when we were five-years-old. I don't think it was that significant."

"It was significant enough for him to come after you in your home, Katelyn."

"Listen, doctor, I don't understand why he did it. I don't understand what was so special about me," she frowns, gesturing to the bandages on his cheeks. "Did he do that?"

"No, I tried to burn him, after I'd shot him six times, more than that. And still, he lives on, strong enough to come to your home after all of it," Loomis says. "Michael toys with his prey before he goes in to strike. I don't think he was there to toy with you, as he let you live. He's let you live until now."

Her brow raises, and she sighs, shaking her head. "I guess he seemed weak when he showed up. I already told the officers everything that happened-we had a fight in the kitchen, he grabbed me, and when I thought he was going to kill me he handed me that drawing instead. Then he left. I really don't know why any of this shit happened tonight, and I have no idea why Michael Myers would hurt all of these people. This isn't the six-year-old boy that I remember, but I guess that seems obvious."

Dr. Loomis clears his throat.

"That's the thing, Katelyn," he begins. "This is the six-year-old boy that _I_ remember. So, it would help me understand Michael better if you could tell me whatever you know about him, from the beginning."

She frowns, deeper, remembering her first days of living in Haddonfield, of being the only person who looked like her in the entirety of her school and even their church. Michael had been the only person for a long time who spared a glance her way, but that was child's play now.

"Michael was the first friend I made in Haddonfield," Katie says, uneasy, "I was five when my family moved here from Chicago. No one really talked to me, or tried to be my friend. Not even the teachers tried to be nice to me. But Michael wasn't like that. His mother wasn't either. Then we grew apart and he left. That's really all there is to it. There's nothing, no meaning, nothing to be gained from it. We were kids. I didn't know any better and neither did anyone else. He was just a quiet boy and had some stuff going on at home, at least from what I've gathered after all this time. I have no idea why he gave me that picture back because I haven't heard from him in all of these years and, to be honest, he sometimes crosses my mind. But my life moved on. It had to."

Dr. Loomis is silent for a moment, and before he can continue, Chuck Jones enters with Frank at his side, making a beeline to embrace his daughter tightly. She sighs, wrapping her arms around his broad frame in return. Her father withdraws to cup her face, sighing in relief at the sight of her. Katie notices the tears in his eyes, feeling her stomach lurch because she's never seen him cry besides at her mother's wake.

"I thought-I thought of the worst, baby, I thought you were one of those kids on the news when I got that call."

She shakes her head. He sighs, hugging her again, with less of a vice grip but he holds onto her for a long time.

"I'm so glad you're okay, Katie," Chuck says with his lips against his daughter's forehead. "Frankie told me about what happened. I'm so proud of you, sweetie."

"Why?" she asks softly, frowning.

"You survived him, you lived. Now, we're going to a hotel but then we're going to your aunt's, and we're gonna stay there for a few days, until all of this shit is sorted out. I'm sure with what happened at the hospital and to you, you'll get a few days off."

Katie nods, wrapping her arms around him again and simply holding on until Chuck seems to remember Dr. Loomis' presence there as the doctor stands.

"Thank you for talking to me, Katelyn," Dr. Loomis says, sounding awkward as he hands her a business card. She holds it in her hand, looking down at the letters on the card, and glances back up at him as he adds, "if you think of anything else, or if you'd just like to talk, my office and personal phone number are on there. Have a good evening."

Dr. Loomis exits. Frank props the door open after he leaves, leading Chuck and Katie out into the corridor, where Chuck wraps his coat around his daughter's shoulders and his arm around her shoulders over it.

"I'll be in touch if anything else comes up," Frank says when the two of them are escorted into another cruiser, "but for now, you'll be with officers, just in case. But honestly, from what Katie's told me about his injuries and what Loomis has confirmed, I have a feeling we'll find his bones at some point in the woods. How can anyone survive that?"

The idea should be relieving, by all means, but it does nothing to sate Katie's nerves. Chuck, on the other hand, seems satisfied with that answer, concerned mostly with his daughter at his side.

"Thank you, buddy," Chuck says, "after all this shit blows over, maybe we can go fishing one of these weekends, whenever duty doesn't call."

Frank chuckles.

"You take care of yourselves, alright?"

Katie nods, offering a small smile and a wave before the door closes, and the cruiser takes off down the road and out of Haddonfield. Katie's eyes feel heavy enough to let herself drift off, dreaming of bullet holes, scarred fingers, and a stark white mask with the blackest eyes she's ever seen.

* * *

The week passes by seamlessly. Chuck and Katie spend the night at a motel with police officers outside of their door and drive out to Chicago to spend the rest of the week with his sister, where Katie drinks margaritas and catches a Bears game and thinks she's done a fine job of forgetting everything until she closes her eyes to sleep at night. In some of the dreams, he opens her up and rips her heart out, her throat, holds it until she wakes up in a cold sweat. In another, she sees the same shaggy-haired boy who ate her carrots every day after recess and wonders if the memories are real or if they're something she made up in her head after everything.

Returning to Haddonfield is another story. Katie feels strange without Budd and Karen there to hound her in the cafeteria, without Mrs. Alves to nag her ear off about the short staff the hospital budget allowed, without Mr. Garrett offering her a donut. The rest of the staff feel it, too, that heaviness, and soon enough news about Katie leaks because everyone knows everything about everyone soon enough in a place like Haddonfield and she starts feeling the burn of everyone's stares boring into her when she's not looking.

Two weeks before Thanksgiving, she gives her notice with Chuck's encouragement, and they welcome their extended family to the family home for the holiday. She cooks most of the sides like her mom used to make and he makes the turkey, and she gets drunk off spiked eggnog while laughing and watching Christmas shorts with her aunts. By now, most of Haddonfield thinks that the boogeyman's been devoured by coyotes in the woods and they're putting their energy towards healing. Katie has only been to her apartment once in the entire duration since Halloween, but she thinks her father will let her leave soon enough.

Slowly, their relatives pour out one-by-one, and Katie sits on the porch to smoke a cigarette after they're all gone and she's already cleaned up enough for tonight. Chuck's somewhere upstairs, getting ready to pass out for the night, and she enjoys the solitude of the moment to herself with her cigarette in her hand, the softness of her sweater and the late November chill. Hasn't had much time to herself to decompress, with her father asserting himself as her helicopter since she was attacked, and she closes her eyes to inhale through flared nostrils and enjoy it.

"Excuse me?"

Katie's eyes flick open, finding a girl standing on their front steps, with cropped blonde hair and a utility coat over her shoulders. Her shoulders are tense, and she doesn't look Katie in the eye when Katie looks at her.

The girl goes on, noticing she has Katie's attention, "I was wondering if I could speak to Katelyn Jones?"

"Yeah, sure," she puts her cigarette out in the glass ashtray on the table beside her, standing to approach the girl. Even in loafers, the girl towers over her easily, and she has to look up at her to meet her gaze. "That's me."

"My name is Laurie Strode-I'm sure you've heard about me."

Katie nods, gaze turning sympathetic.

"Yeah, I have. You can call me Katie, Laurie," she says, gesturing to the front door with a sinking feeling in her chest, "you wanna come in? It's cold out here and you look chilly."

"I-I don't want to disturb you-"

"Don't worry, my father could sleep through a tornado siren and I think we should talk inside."

The two of them enter the house, and Katie gestures to the couch after taking Laurie's coat. Upon closer look, Laurie looks like she hasn't slept in the entire time since Halloween night, blouse wrinkled with blue jeans over it. She still looks uncomfortable when she sits, even when Princess approaches to sniff at her hand and rub against her.

"You want anything to eat? Drink?" Katie realizes she sounds like her mother, but can't stop herself now that she's going, "there's a lot left over and I could make you a plate, if you haven't eaten."

Laurie smiles at the gesture. The smell of the meal does linger, and it's hard to resist.

"Whatever you have is okay with me, Katie," she says softly, "I-my family went away to Florida for Thanksgiving and I decided not to go with them."

Katie nods, heading off to the kitchen to heat her up a plate, handing it to her with a glass of apple cider. Laurie takes both gratefully as Katie sits adjacent in a chair with a glass of cider in one hand and cornbread in the other.

After a moment of digging in, Laurie clears her throat.

"I-Dr. Loomis told me about you," Laurie confesses. _Of course_. Katie's careful not to let her annoyance creep onto her features, letting Laurie continue, "and-I found out that I'm not actually Laurie Strode, like I thought. That I'm Cynthia, Cynthia Myers, and Dr. Loomis told me you knew Michael and his-our mother, before he killed Judith? Is that true?"

A moment passes. All the training to deal with every fathomable shitty predicament in the world and Katie can't think of how to respond other than nodding.

Laurie continues, swallowing a mouthful quickly.

"I just-I guess I just wanted to ask what he was like, what our mother was like. My family doesn't like to talk about it, and I can't find out from anywhere else."

Katie sighs, washing down the last of the cornbread with a swig of cider, and leans back in the armchair to cross her legs. She understands that Loomis had given Laurie her contact information to get information from her too, and the anger that Katie would've felt turns to sympathy when she realizes Laurie has no idea.

So, she indulges her.

"I'll be honest with you, Laurie," Katie says, "I don't remember-all that much. I remember Mrs. Myers was polite and nice, and Michael treated me respectfully. He mentioned you a few times when you were just a baby. I remember Mrs. Myers brought you over this house a few times while we had our playdates, actually. Michael was always fond of you."

Laurie sits back, seemingly taking in the information.

Katie continues, softer now.

"I don't know if that's what you wanted to hear, Laurie. But either way, no matter what you may think, everything that happened isn't your fault. It's what he did. I guess I can see why you'd want to know, but it doesn't change anything."

Laurie sighs, looking at the apple cider between her hands. Katie covers one of her hands with her own, offering a small smile.

"Thank you for the meal," Laurie says softly, "I feel like my family's been-different, ever since Halloween night. I don't know if they knew who my real mother was, but now that the records have been unsealed and it's all over the papers, now they do."

"That why you didn't go to Florida with them?"

Laurie nods.

"I don't blame you, then," Katie says, thinking of Karen and Budd, and then of Laurie's friends that Michael had systematically killed, and offers, "tell you what, if you want-whenever you want, you're welcome here."

That earns a smile from Laurie.

"I appreciate that, Katie."

"You're welcome," and, again, Katie slips into the role of her mother. "I can get you some dessert, too, if you want."

"-Sure, why not. Thank you."

Katie stands, collecting the glass plate and heavy glass to head to the kitchen to get more, sees the curl of Princess' tail over the kitchen island as she trots to the living room to sniff out Laurie. A smile tugs at Katie's features, a huff of a laugh too, and she sets a few slices of pie on a clean plate.

Something black-a silhouette-seemingly appears in her peripheral. When she looks, it's not there. She squints, not trusting the way she's warm with booze all around the edges of her vision, and shakes her head, carrying Laurie's food on a tray to the living room where the two sit for a long time together.

* * *

John Davis certainly has a lot to celebrate. After forty years of teaching at Haddonfield Elementary, he's ready to retire and spend his twilight years at his son's beach house in South Carolina. He's had enough of dealing with kids, enough of dealing with the school administration, and most importantly, he's had enough of dealing with Haddonfield. The tiny town is a cesspool, with claws to pull you right back in once you try to leave, and Mr. Davis intends to go and never look back.

With his son so far away on Thanksgiving, he spends the holiday alone at one of the few opened bars in Haddonfield, drinking watered down whiskey off the tap and flirting with a young bartender, Betsy, who is unfortunate enough to be stuck on the night shift.

"Y'know, I have a bit of an extra tip to offer you, if you're up for hearing me out."

Betsy sighs audibly, pausing in her endeavor to clean the sleek bar of sticky mixed drinks and spilled vodka, stepping only a little closer to him because she doesn't know what he'll do, even over the bar. Either way, she's not going to deal with this shit much long.

"Sir, with all due respect," she says, painted red lips drawn taut, "if you don't knock it off, I'll call over security. I don't think either of us want that."

The confrontation is loud enough to draw the attention and ire of two men sitting nearby, who stand to reveal themselves to be as big as they look while sitting down. The waxed floor of the bar squeaks beneath their boot-clad feet when they approach the bar, leaning against it on either side of the older man.

Betsy sighs in relief, thankful for the deterrence, and goes back to washing down the bar, half paying attention to the task at hand and half being mindful of the conversation at hand, vigilant in case it goes too far.

"We think you ought to get going before there's anymore trouble."

"I'm just having a goddamn beer, as is my _goddamn_ right."

The manager comes over, already aware of the situation.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to finish your drink and leave," the manager says as Betsy gives the two other men drinks on the house for their trouble.

Mr. Davis stands and, in a huff, grabs his coat and slaps a few random bills on the bar, storming out into the storm that's begun to rage outside. It takes a valiant effort to reach his Volkswagen through the heavy snow that seemingly assaults him, but he reaches it, inebriated with his pride still smarting. He almost hits a pole behind him when he backs his station wagon out of his spot, but drives off seemingly without a hitch.

With one hand, he turns the knob until he gets to a rock station that he likes. Edges of his vision blurred, he doesn't notice the way his car drifts slowly off the road until he's almost in a ditch, where he quickly corrects his driving so he's in the lane. Luckily, there are no cops around to pull him over.

What he doesn't see in his rearview mirror is a shape rising, not until he's got hands around his neck. Immediately, Mr. Davis jerks the wheel, hard enough to send him skidding on ice into the ditch he was trying to avoid. The hands dig into his skull and neck when they go careening into the ditch, until the car lands rightside up.

Mr. Davis groans in pain, hears the door open in the back with the sound of broken glass falling into frozen snow. Footsteps crunch loudly in the snow as a figure approaches the driver's side, yanking him out by his arms. Instead of the savior he wants, he sees a face as stark white as the moon above, the snow falling around him, staring down at him, its eyes black holes with nothing beyond them.

He thinks he's already dead, but frostbite makes his hands blue, his leg aching from where he's broken his tibia, and his head pounds with white-hot pain that is far too real to be anything in that warm place between life and death. Mr. Davis groans, turning over on his stomach away from the Shape, standing on his one good leg in the snow. His equilibrium isn't good, but adrenaline fuels him to pick up a good pace away from him and toward the woods nearby. The only thing he knows is the way his heart pounds, desperate to get away.

The ground seems to give up from under him, or there's a patch of snow that's so frozen over it's practically sheet ice-either way, Mr. Davis goes careening down, hitting his nose hard on rock-solid ice. Tastes blood in his mouth when a hand reaches to grab him by the hair, turning him over forcefully to push one big hand over his mouth.

Those black eyes don't move, not even when the Shape's leg pins him down, not even when he grabs valiantly at the mask until there's nothing left, until he chokes on his own blood and loses his breath until everything fades to black.

Only when he's sure that the old teacher is dead is when The Shape withdraws, peering down at him with his head tilted. Blood in the moonlight, spattering over stark white snow, it's fascinating to him, reminds him of some sort of grotesque fingerpainting. He stands, not quite satisfied with his handiwork but knowing it will have to suffice for the longer game plan he has in mind.

Mr. Davis had always been unpleasant to begin with, but remembering the way _she_ had cried when she held onto his hand like a lifeline-it's not rage that he feels, but maybe something close to it. Michael knows he wants him dead, he knows that feeling like he knows his own skin, and he can do that. He imagines _her_ reaction-horror like the others had felt because of his actions, or maybe something different. He wants to know it, because this is for her, this part of it.

It would be for her if he didn't feel a little swell of pleasure at the sight, like a job well done.

Boot-clad feet step over the footprints already left behind for him, illuminated by the snow falling and by the flame of the upturned car. He steps out into the street, feeling a cold draft slap his exposed hands, snow soak his hair. The night is quiet like snowy nights usually are, eerily so, and he savors the quiet of it before an explosion in the distance echoes.

Sirens echo, soon enough, and the only thing the Shape needs to do is wait.

The Shape has always been exceptionally patient, so wait he does.

* * *

It takes Katie about a week to find a new job with Frank's help-a juvenile mental institution, over in Russellville, takes her with open arms. Russellville, despite its close proximity to Haddonfield, seems not to be so small, interwoven, and it's a relief for her.

The first morning she goes back to work, it's so cold in her apartment that she's tempted to crawl back under her duvet and sleep some more. The sight of snow falling outside of her window doesn't help. Knowing she needs to wake up to shower and get breakfast and a coffee in, she kicks off her sheets and runs through the motions of the morning quickly. A pair of Mickey Mouse scrubs, courtesy of her father, and sneakers leave her feeling amused with her work uniform.

While the coffee brews, she slicks her baby hairs with gel until she looks put together enough to satisfy her, and spritzes some rose water over her face and body until she feels fresh. Pouring herself a mug, she sighs, leaning against the counter, before heading out to the front where the mailman's left her mail. She lives on the basement floor, so luckily she doesn't have to deal with too much of the snow, but she still braces for impact anyhow.

Two things-a damp newspaper and an envelope-sit on her welcome mat. Quickly, Katie grabs them both, hugging her cardigan tighter to herself when a particularly cold gust of air stings as it blows by. Stepping inside of the warmth of her apartment, she flicks on the kitchen light to read the paper and her mail better.

The envelope is damp, but not unsalvageable, and she opens that first. Her nail catches on the edge as she rips it open, confused at the lack of address or writing on the front. When she opens it, she finds a drawing on printing paper, crude and crayon, of what she thinks is a car with a stick figure beside it. Her heart races when her gaze flicks from the drawing in her hand to the newspaper, where the headline screams **LOCAL TEACHER FOUND DEAD AFTER DRUNK DRIVING DISASTER!**

A metallic taste fills her mouth as she feels her heart rate pick up, crumbling the drawing in clammy hands before she drops it onto the floor.

Loomis' voice in her head: _Michael toys with his prey before he kills them. He hasn't killed you yet._ Quickly, she heads to the door and locks it, leaning against it.

Through the window, the Shape stands under a streetlight, and waits.

For her.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thank you all for your general feedback thus far, and please let me know more of your thoughts in a review!


	4. Michael

"Do you really think this is that big of a deal, Katie?"

Katie looks from her burger and fries up at Frank, who looks over the crumbled drawing of the car in his hands and back up at her with costernation furrowing his features. The McDonalds is loud around them, with Earth, Wind and Fire playing over at the jukebox and teenagers and couples and senior citizens around them chattering loudly. For some reason, the noise makes Katie even more nervous, because unlike at the children's clinic she doesn't have work to distract her-only her thoughts, and Frank, who's normally not much of a talker as much as he's a grunter.

He's good company, though, whenever her nerves aren't absolutely wracked. They come here at least once a week, for burgers and fries Their waitress brings over their big milkshake to share with each other, which he takes a sip of first to let Katie speak.

"I mean-it's one hell of a coincidence, isn't it? That Mr. Davis crashed his car the other night, and I got this drawing as soon as the news hit the papers."

"It's of two people driving in a car. Any of the kids in your building could've given that to you. Besides, there wasn't any foul play in Mr. Davis' death-you know that asshole was a drunk, among other things, so I doubt Myers had anything to do with it," Frank says, pushing their milkshake toward Katie who drinks from her straw. He adds, "he must be dead, Katie. There's no way-not with the way he was shot, not with the way he was injured at all. It's a goddamn miracle he even lasted long enough to get to your place, but miracles run out, sooner or later."

She nearly scoffs at the idea of anything about Michael Myers being regarded as a miracle.

Katie nods, leaning her cheek into her knuckles pensively as she looks out the window at the parking lot. Nothing looks back at her, but she can't help but feeling watched just as she had this morning.

"I guess you're right."

"Quit being so paranoid," Frank says through a mouthful of french fries, "you're starting to sound like my pa. He was always raving and shit. That's why we sent him off in those last days."

"I'm not a lunatic," Katie argues, shaking her head with a smile. "I just feel like Haddonfield changed, just overnight, because of Michael Myers. It's crazy to me that we were friends, even if I can barely remember it."

"You were what, five?"

"Yeah."

"You never even told me about that, y'know."

"It was never that big of a deal to me. Y'know, my parents just told me that Michael was really sick and his family moved away. It's like this town tried their hardest to cover all of that up, but now they can't, no matter how hard they try."

"That's pretty cynical. I think we're all just trying our best to move on."

She nods, feeling a little guilty for the insensitivity of her statement. "I know you were one of the first on the scene at the Wallace house."

"I was. It was a shitshow."

"So I understand. I just-thinking about him, about all of this, leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

"So, we should try to change the topic. I have a Christmas party at the Elams' on the seventeenth, y'know, and I've been meaning to ask you to come if you have no other plans."

She clears her throat.

"You know I hate Duke Elam, Frank…"

"Well, you know I'm not his biggest fan either. It's Sheriff Brackett's going away party, too. He's going to Florida. It would mean a lot to them and me. Your dad's invited, too, of course."

"You know my dad hates leaving the house these days. I guess I'll come in his stead. It's only right." Katie huffs a laugh. "God, I always give into you so easily, ever since we were kids."

"Doesn't take much."

She shakes her head with a smile.

"No, it doesn't, not when it comes to you. You remember when we were eight and you threw a hammer at your dad's car? I wanted to tell so badly, but you convinced me not to. I don't know if it's you or just me being a pushover."

Frank flashes her a grin, pearly white. "You know, I've always been charming."

Katie scoffs, shaking her head. "Please. Yeah, yeah, I'll come. I need something to do these days, besides work, football with my dad, and Friday night milkshakes with your funky ass."

That earns an even wider grin, and Frank steals the milkshake back to his side, sipping from it until he complains of brain freeze.

Impulsively, the urge to tell Frank about Laurie, about the lost look in the girl's eyes when she showed up on Thanksgiving night, but she doesn't. No one wants to think about Michael Myers, Laurie Strode, or that entire bloodline anymore, and she decides to try to move on, just for tonight.

Frank's walkie goes off, breaking her from her reverie. He talks into it and she doesn't listen closely to hear it. He stands, putting on his hat and throwing a bill on the table.

"Duty calls. You drive home safe, okay? That ice is killer."

"I'll be okay, Frank. Call me in the morning, before you go to sleep for the day? I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine, mom," a gruff chuckle escapes as Frank puts on his coat, leaning down to kiss Katie on the cheek. Katie feels her face heat up as his finger brushes a curl behind her ear. "But I will. Don't forget about the party, okay?"

She shoves at him playfully, with no ill-intent behind it. "I won't. Now go, before you get written up again."

Frank leaves the diner with one last goodbye, leaving Katie with their half-melted milkshake and dirty plates. Out of habit, and because she spent more than a few night shifts cleaning up as a waitress trying to get through nursing school, she wipes their table clean with napkins and stacks up their plates, leaving Frank's bill behind to step out into the cold. Frigid wind seems to assault her as soon as she steps out, sending her hair flying as she feels snow dampen her cheeks and sting her eyes as wind sends it blowing by.

Katie hurries into a phone booth to shut the door behind her, sighing as she leans against the glass, watching as her breath leaves her in puffs in the air ahead. Through the fogged glass, she sees a shape under a streetlight across the street. Her breath catches in her throat as she stares ahead, through the chilled glass.

Her eyes close. The shape is gone.

She digs into her pocket for her wallet, tracing her fingers over the inside until she finds it-Dr. Loomis' business card, elegant and simple and worn at the edges, damp. She sighs, shaking her head and pushing the card back inside its slot, opening the door of the phone booth to hurry to her car nearby.

When she slips inside, she locks the doors and turns on the heat, leaning against the leather seat to light up a cigarette. It does little to warm her up, let alone stop the trembling in her hands, but she holds onto the butt like it's her benediction.

"You're losing it," she says to herself, looking into her own reflection in the rearview mirror and seeing her crazed hair and dampened face looking back at her. She fixes her hair as best as she can. "Goddamn losing it, Katelyn. This is what too much overtime looks like."

That's what she tells herself, anyway.

Even if the feeling of eyes constantly burning into her is hard to ignore.

* * *

Katie can't make out the clock on the wall when she awakens with a start in the middle of the night, ice cold. She feels her teeth chatter as her eyes open, adjusting to the iron dark of her bedroom before she pulls herself up to turn on her lamp on the bedside table. The hardcover copy of The Bluest Eye hits the floor with a thud, startling her to awareness. Finally, when she stands, she makes out the clock on the wall-three in the morning.

"Great," she mutters, knowing her shift starts in a few hours anyway, though not pleased that she's awake before the sun's even up. She ambles to the bathroom to turn on the shower to its hottest setting. It's a routine, at this point-wrap her hair up, step into the shower, almost fall asleep under the hot water until her skin wrinkles.

She takes care of her skin, applying jojoba oil and moisturizer from head to toe, smelling of shea butter and currants. Plucking at her eyebrows until she's satisfied, she rubs cream into her under eyes and then her cuticles, her elbows. Puffs of steam following behind her, Katie steps out in a robe, letting her hair loose to run her brush through it to savor its relaxed state, turning on a record. Billie Holiday's voice croons through the small apartment, causing her to sing along low under her breath. Her mother had always loved Billie Holiday, and she feels a sharp pang of nostalgia thinking about her own mother working her magic in the kitchen. She'll never feel that again.

Years of living without her mom, and she still can't fathom her loss sometimes.

Of course, thinking about family leads her down a dangerous trajectory, and she thinks of her mother and then of Michael's own mother, of Judy Myers and all of her dark hair and pink blouses. The two of them, gone. She shivers, imagining how Michael must have done it, the way so many have whispered about the past few weeks, and clutches hard at the handle of her coffee maker until she comes to.

On reflex, she looks out the window, relieved to find nothing there. A shadow from the open living room behind her moves faintly, basked in yellow from the streetlights outside, but Katie doesn't seem to notice, busied with Billie Holiday and the sizzle of her frying pan as she makes an omelet to pair with her coffee.

The Shape steps into the hallway before she turns around to look over at her living room, away from the sound of her voice singing and the smell of food in the kitchen. He hasn't eaten besides for necessity's sake in a very long time. Until recently, he hasn't tasted food, fed through what the nurses had called a feeding tube. It had been nourishment, and it'd kept him alive. Alive long enough to _wait_.

Her room is clean and organized, a color-coded bookshelf against the wall, a neatly made bed with a blue quilt (he's always remembered that she liked blue better than pink, and it must amuse him that that hasn't changed) and framed posters on the wall.

Without the haze of Thorazine, The Shape sees clearer now. He feels sharper. He _is_ sharper. Away from the smell of coffee and vegetables, he smells the fresh linen of Katie's quilt, the lemon and currant of her hand cream.

He runs a finger over the spine of a book on her bedside table, picking up a picture frame beside it, where Katie stands with her hair curled in a black graduation gown, smiling wide and happy. The other girls in the frame are faces, faces like he sees every day. Insignificant. Useless. He runs a finger over _her_ face, the dark blush on her cheeks and the pink of her lipstick.

He wants.

The pungent smell of nail polish and acetone seem to suddenly fill the room as Katie holds a small hand against her to paint tiny nails. The girl babbles, low against the sound of the record player and the chatting of the other nurses at the nurse's desk. She manages to get all ten fingers painted with pastel pink and glitter over them, but it's harder to make sure her patient, Rachel, doesn't smudge them. When Rachel does, Katie sighs with a small smile.

"It's okay," Rachel says, "don't take-don't take it off. Please. It's pretty."

"I won't," Katie pushes some of the girl's dark hair behind her ear. "But I can fix the nail you smudged if you stay super still for me, okay? If you can stay still, maybe I can also get you a Tootsie Roll."

That excites Rachel, who nods enthusiastically, and Katie gets to work at fixing up the smudged finger, making sure Rachel splays her palms before her to make sure they dry without smudges. Katie rewards her with a few small purple Tootsie Rolls from her pocket and a kiss on her head before she carries on through the big activities room, until she gets back to the nurse's desk where her coworkers stand chatting.

"Katie's got such a natural knack for this, for kids," Lorraine, a woman a few years Katie's senior and the head nurse of their ward, says with a small smirk, "me? As much as I love them, I think I'm awful with them. Maybe it's just my energy."

"I think you're being ridiculous," Katie says, a smile spreading over her features as she reaches for her clipboard. Outside the big window in the activities room, snow seems to pour from the sky, white and heavy. That's all it's been, the last few days, is snow, and Katie dreads the commute home from it. Glancing at the clipboard, she looks back at Lorraine, frowning as she says, quietly, "you know I hate going to Christopher's room. It's depressing."

"Someone's gotta do it, and Donna called out sick tonight. Who knows, maybe you can even get him to talk like you do with Rachel over there."

Katie huffs a laugh, incredulous as she grabs her clipboard and service cart, glancing quickly over his chart with a frown, speaking even quieter now.

"Hey, don't you think this is too much Thorazine for such a small kid? You know he's nearly skin and bones. And he hasn't acted out as long as I've been here. I don't even think he's _moved_ in months, besides when we can take him outside in his wheelchair."

"It's what Dr. Delollis says he needs, Katie. You weren't here to see him and how he was, before we got him on the Thorazine. Donna's got the scars to prove it."

"I know, I just-I don't know. I'll be back soon."

"Sure thing. After that, you can take your lunch."

Katie pushes the cart to head to Christopher's room. Dr. Delolls, the doctor on duty, hasn't yet met his round to this room yet. There's no pictures, no decorations, nothing on the plain white walls. The boy, no older than eight, lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. If she couldn't see his chest moving, she'd say he wasn't even breathing. She steps over to him to turn on the lamp on his bedside table, offering a small smile.

"Hi, Christopher."

No response. She hadn't expected one anyway, but it makes her sigh. She stretches latex gloves over her fingers and puts her stethoscope around her ears, lifting up his t-shirt.

"This is gonna be a little cold, okay?" He twitches minutely when she puts the cold metal of the stethoscope against his chest, listening for his vitals. Other than that, she doesn't get any other reaction, nothing besides his eyes moving to look at her. She offers a strained smile as she checks his ears, checks his temperature, and feeds him the pudding that she's mixed his medication into.

He eats after a moment, cooperative and docile. She hasn't had to do this for him in the time she's been here, nothing besides moving him to prevent bedsores and changing him out of his dignity pants. It's humiliating, she's sure of it, and she winces as if it's her being changed like this, as if it's her being changed instead of Christopher. When she finishes up, she tosses the latex gloves into the trash and wipes her hands clean with hand sanitizer, pushing back his dark fringe of hair from his face. The boy's dark eyes stay fixated on her.

She smiles.

"I'll have to make you something to put on your wall. Maybe you can even help me."

He only looks at her, offering no response. Her hand falls from his hair when she hears the rap of knuckles on the open door, Dr. Delollis stepping into the room behind her. Katie stands, tossing the paper medicine cup into the trash too.

"Good afternoon, Katelyn."

"Hi, doctor. I was just leaving."

Dr. Delollis seems unaffected by the statement, carrying on, "Christopher hasn't spoken or moved in years. I've had too many patients like him. It's a tragedy. But it's better than him hurting anyone else."

Katie frowns. "What did he do?"

"He bit Donna, hard enough to need stitches. He always lashed out."

"So, what, now he's docile enough for you?"

Katie hadn't intended to tread into insubordinate territory, but it leaves her mouth before she realizes. Dr. Delollis shoots her a look surprised. She bites her lip, worrying the flesh as she regrets her statement.

"It's not about being docile, Katelyn," he says, "it's about making sure everyone else is safe."

"I believe you, doctor. I do." She doesn't even convince herself. She backs out, pulling the cart with her. "I'm-I'll leave you to do what you need to do. You know where to find me if you need me."

"Yes, I do. Thank you."

She closes the door behind her, sighing. Those eyes on her face had been an all too familiar feeling, and it'd been easy to switch Christopher's features with the angel-faced boy that sits in the fragments of her memory. She heads downstairs to the cafe for her lunch break after throwing on a sweater, pulling her wallet out of her skirt pocket to pull out that business card. When she finds the nearest payphone, she dials the rotary, nerve endings feeling alight with impulsive energy.

"Thank you for calling the office of Dr. Samuel Loomis, my name is Karen. Whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?"

"My name is Katelyn Jones. I'd like to book a consultation appointment."

* * *

It turns out Dr. Loomis was very willing to accommodate her in the selectivity of his new private practice. Unfortunately for her, it meant that she'd have to spend her Saturday mornings with him. She had no idea why she even called him in the end, and knows she'll have to think of a good reason come their first session. For now, she anticipates the Christmas party that upcoming Friday, which comes quicker than she'd like.

She wears a royal blue patterned wrap dress under her jacket and heels that boost her petite stature just a little, but not enough to be outright dangerous on the black ice that blankets the sidewalks and streets. There's a knock at the door as she's dabbing perfume on her wrists, sending her walking briskly to open it to find Frank standing there.

"Hey, come on in, I'm almost ready."

"You look great."

"You owe me on, for coming with you today."

He offers her a bouquet. Tulips. Her heart skips a beat as she takes them in hand.

"So, maybe we're even," Katie grins, bending under her sink to grab a vase to fill with water, setting it in the middle of her table. Then, she hugs Frank fiercely. "How'd you know tulips have always been my favorite?"

"Maybe I just guessed."

"Maybe that's bullshit," she kisses him on the cheek, taking his hand when he offers it to head out the door, locking it behind her. He escorts her to his car, opening the passenger door so she can sit inside, and he sits on his own side to start the car to head to the party in Haddonfield. Duke Elam's house is huge, big enough for a circular driveway and a pool in the backyard, though the guests that have arrived thus far huddle inside by the big fireplace in the living room. When they ring the doorbell, the Elams greet them at the front door.

"I haven't seen Katelyn in so long," Duke says, hugging her. She belatedly wraps her arms around him in return. His wife, Sharon, hugs Katelyn too. Lonnie, their ten-year-old, meekly waves hello before wandering off to return to his friends who sit on the floor by the fire. Frank offers Sharon a bottle of chardonnay with a bow on it, which they set with the other gifts under their tree.

"It's been a long time," Katie agrees, sizing Duke up. The eyepatch over his eye makes him even more intimidating, somehow. It always has. That, along with his immense stature and build, have intimidated the kids in their school for years.

"It sure as hell has. Hey, you got a minute? I wanna talk to you. I've been meaning to, but I guess now's the perfect time."

Katie nods, putting her hand on Frank's arm to let him know she'd be going, and follows Duke to the other side of the big house into what looks like a den. He shuts the sliding door behind them, stepping over to a drink cart where he pours himself a glass of scotch. When he offers her some, she nods.

"Just two fingers," Katie says quietly. She takes a seat when he hands her the glass, heavy and crystal, and he sits in the chair adjacent to her own. Self conscious, Katie crosses her legs, too tense to lean back and enjoy her drink, instead sipping at it only a little.

"You saw him, right?" Duke asks finally, without preamble. Katie knows who he's referring to, but doesn't say it outright, merely raising a brow.

"Who?"

"The Shape."

Katie scoffs.

"You mean, Michael Myers? You know I did. Everyone in Haddonfield knows that I did."

"And he didn't hurt you."

She remembers the day Duke lost his eye after school, and the way he'd pointed at Michael. She frowns.

"Do you still think it was Michael that did that to you?" She gestures to the place where his eye used to be. In response, Duke takes off the eye patch, showing the scarred, glossed over eyeball underneath. Katie doesn't flinch or take her eyes away from it.

"No," Duke says finally, "I don't just think. I _know_. That sick fuck's always been sick. Always. And no one believed me."

"I'm sorry," is all Katie can say. It's not good enough for Duke, who shakes his head.

"I don't know why he didn't hurt you. Why he didn't kill you, when he had the chance."

"He-he was weak. He was bleeding all over my kitchen floor. And, believe me, he tried. He tried. But he didn't. And then he was gone."

"Gone, just like that?"

"Yeah. You think I'm lying or something, Elam?"

Duke's eyes narrow. Something in them, something malicious that makes her shudder despite the warmth of the room.

"I just want to know what's so special about you. What's _always_ been so special about you."

Katie laughs, standing and downing the rest of her scotch before setting the glass hard on the table.

Her response is spitting. "Maybe it's because I've never been a racist or a fucking prick like you."

Duke stands quickly, reaching for her arm to grab her wrist before she can reach the doorknob. She tugs at her wrist only for him to tighten his hold. The voices outside of the room scream and yell and Ben Meeker's voice sounds through the wall, leaving her feeling queasy. She hasn't been in the same place as all of them since school and she knows now that she definitely doesn't want to be, Frank Hawkins be damned.

"I don't have an eye because of him! Do you understand what I'm saying? Do you understand what I've had to go through all these years? And now he's out."

"He's dead, Duke! Michael Myers is fucking dead! And you will be, too, if you don't let go of me!"

Finally, Duke lets go. Katie quickly leaves the room before he can say anything else, trying to act nonchalant and avoid Frank on the way out. She grabs her coat and barely manages to wrap it around her form before she's out the door and onto the sidewalk. Heart pounding in her eyes, hard and fast, she feels herself shaking as she walks down the street, knowing she doesn't have her car. Not in the mood to hail a taxi, she decides to head to her father's for the night, only a few blocks over. He's not there and neither is Princess, but she still has her spare key and clothes in her bedroom.

Her fast pace gets her there in ten minutes, where it takes her a few moments to still the trembling in her hands to find the right key to open the door. She takes off her heels the moment she gets inside, throwing her coat over the back of the coach. The bottle of rum sits untouched under the kitchen sink since she last drank from it and she takes a shot from it, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and exhaling deeply. It had been a terrible idea to let Frank convince her to go to a house full of every single bully from her childhood, especially in the wake of Halloween night, but Katie can at least say she gave it the college try.

Thinking of leaving Frank alone makes guilt twinge at her core. It'd be easy to explain, but it doesn't make her feel any better about it.

When she sets the bottle of rum down, she hears a creak from the living room and heads in with the bottle in hand. She finds nothing there, but when she looks behind her, there's no mistaking the stilouette by the back door. Her heart pounds hard and fast in her chest as she swallows, goosebumps rising over her skin.

The black eyes of Michael's mask stare into her.

"Michael," she says, nearly whispering. He cocks his head at her once more. "I knew you were alive. I knew it-I know you've been watching me. Why? What do you want from me? Michael."

He doesn't respond and she doesn't expect him to. She backs up, away from him, realizing to her horror that he's advancing toward her, menacing and quicker than she'd imagine. There's a grace to his movements, lethal as they are, and he's much bigger than her. It doesn't stop her from trying to run, though she feels his arms around her waist pulling her back quicker than she can register. A hand goes over her mouth when she tries to scream and she bites hard enough to draw blood. A grunt escapes as he drops her ungracefully onto the couch and she kicks at him, clawing at his jumpsuit. In their struggle, he drops the knife in his hand and she kicks it away.

Finally, she gets her hands on the mask, the hem of it, and claws at the skin of his throat. Quickly, Michael grabs her hands and pins them with one hand, leaving the two of them with little space between them. He breathes as hard and heavy as she does, labored, as she stares into his face so close to his own. She feels herself tremble as one of his big hands moves to her clavicle, down her front until it reaches the tie of her dress.

"Michael," she says again, lower, trembling. She doesn't fight him, "don't."

He unties the dress and she bites her lip, feeling heat pool in her core despite herself. The sound of a zipper registers in her ears as she feels his hands pull her underwear down and off, and his form pressing closer to her own, hot and huge. The hand on hers leaves to grip at her hips, leaving mean bruises in their wake as he pushes into her. She groans, gripping hard at broad shoulders as he moves, not letting up in his punishing pace.

She bites at the sliver of skin between the mask and the collar of his suit, earning what sounds like a sharper exhale, and she pulls at the mask until one of his hands comes up to make her stop. Thighs wrapped around his own, she moves them so she's on top, in his lap, but she doesn't run. She keeps moving, even with one of his hands at her throat that could easily snap her neck but doesn't, until she feels him finish, following closely behind him as another moan escapes.

" _Michael_."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** Well. Happy Halloween Month!


	5. Sweet

**Author's Note:** I won't spoil anything forthcoming, but the relationship between Katie and Michael is certainly not healthy at all in the least. Here's a catch-all warning for here on out, including the graphic sexual content later in this chapter.

I will never, _ever_ write out sexual assault or rape, but their interactions are not and will never be healthy, or like that of a traditional couple. Michael is a possessive, toxic person to his core, if not pure evil he's still an awful person and this is my depiction of a realistic "romance" involving his character. Please read the rest of this story with that in mind. Otherwise, happy reading!

* * *

 _"'Cause I still swear you are_  
 _I still swear you are_  
 _Good for me_  
 _You still swear you are_  
 _You still swear you are_  
 _You are lethal 'til the end."_

\- "Lethal" by Cloudeater

* * *

Dr. Loomis' private practice is located in a suite in downtown Russellville, close but far enough from Haddonfield to escape its claws. It's elegant, full of deep, rich yellows and reds and purples, with a Rorschach painting on the wall by the entrance and a figurine at its center that Katie can't decipher but stares at for the fifteen minutes she's sat there filling out paperwork anyway. The waiting room feels airtight and cramped and his office is no better when she steps inside, heart picking up when their eyes briefly make contact. After what happened last night, quick as it was, she feels like she's constantly in a state of deception, somehow-and Katelyn Jones has never been a good liar.

"Where should I-?" Katie asks, gesturing to both chairs in the spacious seating area in front of his big oak desk.

"Whichever you'd prefer, Katelyn."

She nods, hesitating a moment before choosing the chair closest to her. The leather's cold against her palms and through the fabric of her jeans, her hair wrapped in a silk scarf and leaving her even colder, despite her soft sweater and boots. She crosses one leg over another, arms crossing.

Dr. Loomis sits before her and she looks out the big windows behind him, at the snow that falls to the ground in heaps so heavy that the courtyard seems like it's completely white. He looks back at her.

Her knuckles whiten as they clutch the arms of the chair, then she finally looks back at him, clearing her throat.

"Katie."

"What?"

"Only my mother ever called me Katelyn," Katie says, mustering a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, "and she died years ago. So, Katie."

"Okay, Katie," Dr. Loomis says, "I'm curious. You chose to book an appointment with me. You know my usual area of expertise is with adolescents, with family trauma."

She nods, swallowing thickly.

"I know."

"So?"

"What are you looking to achieve here?"

She purses her lips, realizing that in her stumble from last night to this morning, that she hadn't even thought of an apt excuse.

"I don't know," she says honestly, "no bullshit, okay? I know you wanted to talk about Michael. But something in me wanted to make an actual appointment, I don't know."

Dr. Loomis looks pleased enough at that answer that it makes Katie exhale in relief. She relaxes enough to cross her ankle over her knee, propping her chin on her hand as she glances at him with a small smile.

"Would you like to talk about Michael first, then?"

"Okay. You can ask me anything."

"You told me that Michael was your only friend."

"He was. You can imagine how that came to be. I was the only black girl in school, or one of the only ones. The other kids didn't take too kindly to me, especially because I was from Chicago," Katie digs out a box of cigarettes from her purse. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

Dr. Loomis shakes his head. Katie lights up, exhales smoke away from him before she tips ash into the ashtray before her.

"Michael was… kind to you?" Dr. Loomis asks. She shrugs.

"He didn't call me names and he didn't immediately walk away or ignore me when I went to sit with him." She smiles fondly, remembering how they met at the playground in kindergarten. It's a distant memory but it's one she won't ever forget. She goes on, undeterred by the clear look of surprise on Loomis' features, disguised by scars and the same intensity she'd recognized in him when they first met months ago, "he didn't talk much. And it was clear that there was shit going on at home. He never mentioned anything to me, but I heard Miss Myers talking to my mom about stuff I didn't understand then. But we were inseparable like five-year-olds tend to be when they meet their first friend in the world."

She remembers Deborah Myers sitting with her golden lion's mane disheveled in her mother's kitchen chair, her face splotched in bruises as her mother fixed up stitches in a cut above her black eye-remembers the way Michael would go cold on her, like he'd turned into stone, the few times she'd mention it. Remembers her father telling her mother to leave it be, that every family has its problems and that it's not their business to stick their nose in. They'd always been old-fashioned, even at the risk of others.

Katie tips ash from her cigarette and realizes she's so antsy that she has to stand, examining the insect taxidermy neatly collected along the tall bookshelves on the perimeter of the room. Loomis, on the other hand, stays seated, his gaze fixed on Katie.

"Would you say that your friendship with Michael was a formative experience, then?" Loomis asks. It's a smart question; a good way to make it seem like he has only her best interests in mind. And maybe he does-but Katie also knows that he's too obsessed to simply let go, if anything that Frank and her father have said about him is true.

"I guess so, yeah," Katie admits, examining a moth in its glass display to avoid making eye contact as she thinks about Michael, the way he hadn't looked at her twice before leaving her on her family couch, ruined and shaking, about the way it took her over an hour to get up and clean up and take a shower and cry under the hot water for reasons she couldn't quite name at the time. She'd slept better than she had in months, since Michael came crashing back into her life. That makes her feel even worse, somehow, exhilarated as she is at sharing this secret only with him, wherever he is.

"Like I told you before, though, it didn't mean much to me until Halloween night. I'm twenty-two. I graduated second in my class. I went to nursing school. I lost my mother. I have family, other friends. I try not to dwell on stuff, especially not that stuff. Things still aren't the best for my family, but they're better than they were then. They're better for me."

She returns to her chair to put out her cigarette in the ashtray beside it.

"And those experiences of racism and alienation, those were formative, too?"

"Of course they were," she says, shaking her head as she pinches the bridge of her nose, "of course they were. I don't like to think about it."

"It's easier not to?"

"No shit," she doesn't realize how acerbic the statement is until it's out and she can't take it back, "sorry. I just-have my own circle in life. You learn to put up with a certain amount of bullshit when you're in my position. I don't say that to get pity or whatever, I just say it as a fact."

He's quiet for a moment. And then, unflinching, "and did Michael's return drudge up those old feelings, Katie?"

Her heart skips a beat as she glances at him, brow scrunched as she tries to think of an apt response.

"It'd make sense, if it did," Loomis offers, "you said yourself that you haven't thought of him in a long time."

"Yeah. I haven't."

And now, she has no choice but to, feeling his eyes on her everywhere she goes.

"That in addition to knowing all of the abhorrent things he's done-I understand that, at least."

"Do you think he's dead?" Katie asks abruptly, determined to derail the conversation and knowing Loomis is too smart for that to work for too long.

"Michael? No. I don't think so," he indulges her, "I don't think he would allow himself to do so. Not until he gets what he wants."

"And what is that, do you think?"

Their eyes meet, his gaze knowing.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. Maybe I can, with your help," Loomis gently suggests, "and I'd like to pick up where we left off next week. I'm afraid our thirty minute consultation is up. It was very nice meeting with you, Katie. Let's meet here again, next Saturday."

"Thank you for making an exception for me," she says, shaking his hand.

He looks at her a beat too long and she thinks he sees right through her.

* * *

When Katie gets back to her apartment a few blocks away, the first thing she does is check all of the rooms of the place to make sure the windows and doors are locked. Then she makes a bowl of leftover stewed rhubarb with brown sugar and a cup of coffee. It's only when she's comfortably situated on her couch that she calls Frank, who groggily answers on the fifth ring.

"Hey, Frank," Katie says, preparing for whatever Frank has in store.

"I'm surprised you're calling," he says flatly.

"Don't be so passive-aggressive. You weren't cornered by Duke fucking Elam last night, okay?" she sighs, leaning back against her sofa she takes a bite of her rhubarb, exhaling softly. "And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to just leave you like that. I just-freaked out."

"No shit," Frank says, "I called you a few times last night. You didn't answer. Had me worried sick."

"I went to my dad's," she says, almost choking on her food, "and I-I just passed out, I guess. I mean, I got drunk first."

"Yeah," Frank says in that gruff tone of voice that lets Katie know she's forgiven in some way, "I'm surprised you're up so early."

"I had an appointment."

"On a Saturday?"

"Mm," she puts her phone in the crook of her other ear. "It took me awhile to get it. Listen, I know you're sleeping and you had a long night. I just wanted to check in."

"I know you have Saturdays off."

"I do."

"Do you want to-I don't know, do something together? My mother's making a big dinner for the game later today and she's been asking about you. I just don't think you should be alone."

"Stop being ridiculous. It's been months," her stomach lurches thinking about the events of months ago and last night, which come to her viscerally, "I-I don't know-"

"You don't even have an excuse," he seems to realize how harsh that comes out and he quickly corrects himself, sounding gentler, a little more pleading, "just come over."

"Fine. I owe you. I know how much you love spending time with your mother and your sisters. I have a double tomorrow though, so I'll be leaving right after the cheesecake."

"Sounds good to me. Be there by four for the snack tray."

"Should I make something or pick something up?"

"If you want. My mother won't take it, but you're free to try. I'll see you then."

When she hangs up, she sighs, knowing she'll have to start the process of showering and doing her hair a few hours before the event later today. When she gets out, she lathers her skin in oil and cocoa butter, deciding on a turtleneck sweater with a black overall dress over it, with tights and boots. It hits her that she hasn't put quite an effort into her appearance in months and doesn't want to think about why.

She pulls her hair back in a braid and decides, last minute, on red lipstick and simple makeup before leaving for the grocery store for blueberry pie and then Frank's mom's house.

When she arrives, the Shape is there to watch her walk inside from across the street. He could stand there for hours, simply watching. And he does. He has no interest in anything on the television or in anyone in the family. He only watches her, moving to the window by the driveway, ignoring the cruiser parked in the driveway. It gives him an innate satisfaction to know he's so blatantly under everyone's noses, and perhaps in some way, his game with Katie is a test of how far he can push and push until she comes to her senses.

Today, she simply watches a football game that Michael doesn't understand, and she sits close enough to Frank Hawkins that his knuckles whiten around the handle of his knife. Seeing her with Loomis earlier had been enough, but this-he feels rage well up in his chest at the sight of the two of them on the couch, knees touching, a friendly arm wrapped around her shoulders. Rage is easy. It's all he feels besides nothing at all and whatever else he'd felt last night, the urgency to have and consume. He feels that now, too, but the rage is more familiar.

The game lasts a few hours. The cop walks Katie to her car in the driveway, where Michael uses the underbrush to cover himself from view. A sharp exhale escapes when they embrace and Frank kisses her temple before she slides into the driver's seat.

That smile on Frank's face, the smile on Katie's-it won't do. Not at all.

* * *

Relieved to be free of people from a long day of socializing, Katie puts on a random vinyl that she doesn't even read before sliding off her shoes and hanging her coat. She considers pouring a glass of wine but wisely decides on water instead, still woozy from the white wine Frank's mom had shoved on her all night long.

It's when she's on her way down the hallway to her bedroom and then the bathroom that she feels the air change. When she does, she turns around, slowly, knowing that she'll find the Shape there before she sees him, blocking the front door. Realistically, she could crawl out onto the fire escape where her bedroom is. There's a lock on the doorknob. She could do it.

"Get out-you don't get to just come back! Get out!"

She pauses. Michael moves forward and she takes a step back, thinking of any weapon she may have in her room if it takes too long to slide open the window.

Her nose scrunches and she speaks quieter.

"I'm gonna call the police if you don't go-so just, go! Leave me alone!"

But she finds herself frozen as Michael advances toward her, quicker than before. There's a knife in his hand, too, which she notices as it glints in the low light of her living room. He grabs her as she exclaims in surprise, manhandling her into the bedroom.

The bronze frame of Katie's bed creaks under her weight when she's deposited almost precariously on the mattress. She can hardly see Michael where he stands in the doorway, a mere shape even with the blue light of the moon that shines from between drawn blinds and soaks him. A shiver wracks through her, the two of them merely sharing each other's gaze for a moment, then he advances toward her, slow and tantalizing, as if savoring the anticipation and tension that must roll off of her.

Vaguely, Katie wonders if this is what it really means to toy with your food and she wishes the idea didn't send white hot arousal straight to her core.

A hand grips her ankle and pulls her hard down to meet him, Michael's weight covering her own, pressing hard against her hip. The hand with the knife cuts into her tights, impatient, cutting into skin in the process. It earns a groan as he yanks them down in his ungracious haste; her panties cut next. It's quick, so quick that she can't do much besides grab onto whatever she can reach of him, trying to push up the hem of his mask.

Her heart races as that vice grip finds its way around her throat next in response, not squeezing but gripping firmly as if in warning, his dark eyes staring down at her to see her reaction. There's only a moment's hesitation before manicured fingers stop struggling to get the mask off to start squeezing at his throat, nails digging in hard.

She's satisfied when the hand at her throat reaches for her hands, pinning them both above her head with ease, knowing bruises will later bloom in the shape of his hands. A smirk spreads over her features as his head tilts, inquisitive. He lets go. She keeps her hands where they are, knowing better. The hand finds her throat again and she spreads her legs wider to accommodate him and she can see the glint in his eyes, even in the darkness of her bedroom.

"Fuck you-fuck you-" she can't stop talking, she won't, and it seems to spur him on and it's partly why she keeps doing it, why she keeps cursing and struggling, even though he's stronger and more formidable than she'll ever be.

Keeping her pinned, his other hand pushes between her thighs, a rough finger pressing inside without preamble. She's soaked and she can smell herself, her own arousal, but it's still so rough that it earns a soft cry. Still inquisitive, Michael pushes another finger inside of her, taking in every breathy sound she makes in response as he opens her up with his fingers.

"Ah-"

There's no finesse to this. His hand squeezes, then, not hard enough to break bone, though there's a certain exhilaration she wishes she didn't feel at the idea, but it's still hard enough to take her breath away. It doesn't hurt. She claws at his hand as he pumps his fingers in and out, in and out. The sound of it's obscene.

When he releases her throat to let her breathe, she sees stars.

Noticing Michael's breath's gotten heavier, Katie licks her lips, one hand reaching out to palm at his erection through the fabric of his jumpsuit, keeping the pressure light, unsure of his reaction. His hand finds hers instantly before he realizes what she's doing and he releases her wrist, looking back up at her as her gaze meets his.

That smirk on her features grows wider, more sure of herself than she'd been last night, and Katie asks, good-natured but still coy, "good?"

As if incensed by the remark, Michael grabs and roughly maneuvers her, leaving her on her stomach. His hands push her dress up, upward until the skin of her ass is bare for him. She has no chance to move before he's moving her so her ass is hiked in the air, back arched, and she groans, gripping the bed sheets. She can concede _this_ , for him, especially the way arousal makes her cunt throb.

Rough hands cup one of her ass cheeks, and if this were anyone else she'd think of the feeling as reverent, in a way, even if she can't see his face. She realizes that this is the first time he's ever touched anyone like this, and that realization sets something off in her, too, her breathing going heavier.

"Michael-" he stills, then, as she continues, "what the fuck? Michael-"

Her inquiry turns into a groan as he pushes inside of her, just as rough as he'd been with his fingers. Propped on her elbows, she groans as he wastes no time moving, their pace rough and deep already. One of his hands grips onto her throat with ease, her petiteness suiting him just fine. Katie's bigger than a lot of the other girls he's seen, with bigger thighs and hips and fat in more places, but she's shorter than a lot of them, too. He's always been bigger and stronger than her and he likes that, too; he squeezes her throat just thinking about it.

The angle feels and looks as uncomfortable as it is as Michael seemingly pounds into her, the obscene sound of their skin meeting earning a groan as she struggles for air against Michael's hand at her throat. She strains to meet Michael's thrusts simultaneously with the hand at her throat, making her body arch deliciously for him off the bed. It's punishing and the cruelty is almost palpable in the air between them. Her hands start clawing at his hand against her throat when it starts getting hard to breathe, when she starts seeing stars. And he only moves faster, harder, spurred on by the feel of her wet heat squeezing tight around him, his grip going firmer and firmer.

It's only when he releases inside of her that he lets up, finally, leaving her to suck in a big inhale in time with her own orgasm as she squeezes tight around him. He hears her groan in response to the wet heat of his come inside of her cunt, at the wetness that trickles down her thighs when he pulls out after a moment, leaving more of it in his wake. It's obscene and disgusting and fascinating, to him. Even more fascinating when she almost whines at him pushing his finger inside of her again, she's wetter than she's ever been before.

His head tilts. He pushes a second finger inside and she grips at the sheets, trying to move away from the contact on her sensitive cunt.

"Too much, Michael-too much!"

A third finger joins. She cries out into her pillow as he moves his fingers in and out, in and out, leaving her to push back onto them because she has no choice. She rides the stretch of his fingers inside of her and she barely bites back the sound that escapes when he pushes his fingers apart, as if he can claw his way inside of her just like that. It hurts and it's better than anything else she's ever experienced.

She groans as she feels herself tipping closer to the edge already, hearing the way his breathing grows more labored behind the mask, the croon of her jazz records in her living room totally distant now, like she's under water.

When his thumb rubs at her hard clit, curious, she feels herself tipping over the edge. She tightens so hard around his fingers that it hurts, and he keeps moving his fingers in and out of her. And she cries through it like he's hurting her and he's sure he is, and he knows that does something to him, too. Not like the others, but-it's _sweet_. Satisfying. Having her like this. He's never had anything like this before, had anyone like this.

It's only when she's absolutely trembling that he pulls his fingers free from her soaked cunt. She collapses against the bed, heaving for air. He stands, zipping up his mechanic's uniform as he takes in the sight of her. This is how he leaves everything in his life-ruined, destroyed in his wake. This isn't the same but it is, in a way, the same sort of torture.

She reaches for this wrist, catching along the bare, scarred skin, more certain than she'd been earlier, too. He doesn't fail to notice that, at least, but it's unclear if it affects him, too.

"Don't-you don't have to-" she can't quite muster the words and she wishes she could-maybe she'll be more certain next time, too, as much as she tries not to think about a possible next time.

Michael allows the contact for a moment before taking his hand away from her. Cold air hits her bare skin when he leaves through the fire escape, and she doesn't watch.

The knife he leaves on her bed shines in the moonlight and she takes it in hand, looking at her reflection in it. Her marred lipstick, smudged mascara, disheveled hair.

That's when she laughs so hard that she can't quite stop.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** an intense chapter, to say the least. Let me know what you think in a review! I hope everyone is safe and happy out there.

The therapy session between Loomis and Katie is inspired by the pilot episode of HBO's _The Sopranos_. Social distancing has given me a chance to rewatch it and I couldn't quite help myself.


End file.
